The wind from the open window,
Is cool against my feverish face,
My legs fold against my aching chest,
As bruised arms hug my knees tight,
Time slows to a crawl, my mind is hollow,
Empty but for the remnants of old, shattered pride,
So thinking, my eyes linger too long on a phone discarded.
When will the response come?
And will I be happy that it does?
Discarded Recollections 
Rather than feeling happy, i think you’d be more relieved that the waiting has come to an end
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But then what do we wait for after that?
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It’s like a whole chapter of a book, Masa. I love the way your feelings morph into a verse. Effortlessly beautiful!
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I often wonder if my hand is stronger with poetry or prose. I know there’s no line upon which I must choose to stand, but it comes up enough. I think I simply like vignettes. I am unskilled with a brush, so maybe I just yearn to paint a moment with words instead.
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Your hand is strong enough to turn which way it wants. Poetry or prose .. they become putty in your hands.
And you paint your words well.
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Ha! You truly are kind. Thank you.
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My pleasure, Masa.
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